The Prophet's Alibi

By Timothy J. Korzep

The President of the United States has been abducted.

While meeting with other world leaders in a unified Europe of the future, President Marge Haydon is among the members of the elite G-10 taken captive by militants who crash a peaceful inaugural luncheon. The terrorists, led by a mysterious man called the Prophet, now have control of some of the most powerful people in the world.

Sylvia Jensen is President Haydons personal assistant. She is a child of the new millennium, trained in anti-terrorism and modern combat. Whether its mere fate or divine intervention that puts her in the right place at the right time, she may be the worlds only chance at a peaceful resolution. But even Jensen cant be sure who shes up against in the gray area of foreign relations, and no-body knows the identity of the Prophet.

Jensen finds herself up against a power-hungry threesome who has already amassed almost seven percent of the worlds gold re-serves. These men want more, though, and now lives are at stake in the name of domination and greed. The world must watch and wait as world leaders suffer hours of terror and the world approaches the brink of disaster.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469737034

Timothy J. Korzep

Timothy J. Korzep was raised with a Wall Street Journal in his hands. In his working life, he found himself surrounded by fund managers, market strategists, and analysts, spending time in Paris, Milan, London, and Hong Kong. He is the author of Final Approval and The Kondratieff Crisis. He currently lives in California.

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CHAPTER 1

Vienna, Austria, February 14, 11:27 a.m.

Eight shadowy men inside the abandoned industrial park located in the northwest outskirts of Vienna worked furiously against the clock. The obscure site was wedged between the Danube River on the north and the thickly wooded forest that buffered the Gewurztraminer wine district to the south. A paved road that led into the compound hugged the bank of the Danube for approximately three kilometers, while a poorly maintained dirt road skirted the southern edge of the dense forest beyond the complex.

Inside the loading bay of the second warehouse, the contingent all donned industrial uniforms splashed with logos that matched the two innocuous laundry vans parked just inside the rolling aluminum doors. The precise, all-male unit completed their last-minute synchronized drills—checking watches, loading clips into Berettas, and concealing combat knives. All but two of the men would leave the facility heavily armed.

On the floor next to the door, four black, hard plastic cases sat side by side, with their lids open. All were identical in dimension—two feet wide, two feet deep, and four feet long. In the first case there were two handheld surface-to-air rocket launchers strapped into its foam-rubber lined top tray of the box that was opened to a forty-five degree angle, exposing an ample cache of ammunition for their weapons. One of the men inspected its contents then closed the box, buckled its clamps, and moved to the second hard plastic box. This box contained twelve AK-74 assault rifles in its lower bay and its corresponding ammunition was strapped into the tray. The weapon was the newer version of its Russian-made predecessor, the AK-47. The third container included a digital television camera replete with all of the necessary audio-visual equipment for making a viable broadcast. The case was closed and locked, and the vigilant man moved to the final case. It contained three laptop computers loaded into mini-stabilizing bays within the larger lower bay itself, along with a considerable amount of network gear—wireless routers, T3s, etc. The final case was locked and all four cases were stored in the back of the second van. The lead van was inconspicuously loaded with an ample supply of clean laundry, all shrink-wrapped in clear plastic bundles.

At precisely 11:35 a.m., one of the men disengaged the two metal struts that locked the rolling aluminum door in place and yanked on the chain that hoisted the rolling door upward. Two of the men climbed into the first van, fastening their seatbelts. The remaining five men entered the second van—four sat in the back and the other got into the driver’s seat. Both van’s engines were started and the vehicles emerged slowly from the loading bay. The remaining man closed the rolling door, exited the warehouse through a separate door in front office area, and joined his five colleagues in the passenger seat of the rear van. Within seconds, the vehicles departed through the chain link fence gate and proceeded eastbound on the frontage road en route to central Vienna.

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An armada of black limousines pulled up to the curb of the United Nations building in a precise formation, while chugging tailpipes puffed gentle plumes into the frigid February morning. A small flag on the antenna of each limousine identified the host country of its occupants. An efficient battalion of well-dressed Viennese security and Secret Service agents, as well as EU personnel assigned to greet the motorcade, was deployed. Some opened the limousine doors while others kept the small contingent of media personnel and well-wishers in check behind the designated chained together steel roadblocks opposite the drop-off curb. Access to the driveway entering the lower complex was immediately closed to all other traffic and fortified with an armed presence. Personal security agents assigned to their various leaders emerged from the limousines, flanking the ten leaders who followed them out of the vehicles. Out of the lead car emerged conservatively dressed EU president, Edgar Elliott. The distinguished fifty-six year-old Englishman was a staunch European Unionist despite recent troubles in Greece, creating somewhat of a personal rift with the British prime minister.

Mr. Elliott! one reporter shouted, while a multitude of cameras flashed. What is the EU prepared to do about the continued strength of the dollar against the collapsing Euro?

If the Euro was genuinely collapsing there might be dialogue about intervention, Elliott wanted to answer, but this wasn’t a press conference. He turned his slender six-foot frame to acknowledge the question, and a modest lock of chestnut hair fell harmlessly upon his forehead. Instead of responding, he calmly brushed the hair away and nodded cordially in the direction of the steady flicker of cameras.

He was followed by recently elected Russian president, Alexander Nobakov, a fixture of and holdover from the former Soviet Union, who was now their freely elected president. His looks had changed little in nearly seventeen years of absence from the international community, with strands of thinning gray-blond hair combed over to the side of his forehead. He was a little huskier than during his earlier years—a result of the good life at his dacha on the Black Sea.

Mr. Nobakov! a journalist shouted from behind the barricade. Mr. Nobakov, how does it feel to finally attend the G-10 meeting, having been on the outside for so many years?

That question was also answered with a rehearsed nod, and the Russian leader turned stiffly toward the building’s entrance. While several of the ten leaders had a reputation for their cordiality with the media, Nobakov was not one of them, and today was not that day. The morning briefing called for a quick photo-op, which was hustled to the high-speed elevators that whisked them to their secure meeting high above.

What is your timeline for pullout of Georgia? another journalist asked. It was the very salvo the newly elected American president had fired across the Atlantic just forty-eight hours earlier, setting the tone for an awkward meeting between the two super-power leaders.

The Russian leader turned intently to locate the source of the question. His disarming expression caused a small fissure in the pack of journalists, exposing just one reporter. Nobakov rubbed his chin while his eyes seemed to interrogate the young man, but he didn’t say a word.

No rest for the weary, is there Mr. Nobakov? the Canadian prime minister, Scott Hammons said, while buttoning his suit jacket, jarring the Russian president from a visual water-boarding of the young reporter. Hammons himself had a short fuse with the media when they asked questions he considered out of line.

Oh, they’re really quite harmless, Mr. Hammons, Nobakov allowed, while the two leaders shared small talk.

Hammons was Canada’s version of Teddy Roosevelt. The cane he used sparingly was the result of a curtailed hockey career and the ensuing abuse he’d put himself through as an amateur rodeo bull-rider. He hated relying on it from time to time, but there was no more cartilage left in his right knee to remove. Despite his misgivings, it augmented his appearance.

Marge Haydon emerged from a vehicle in a sharp navy blue suit surrounded by a small personal security entourage. She was the first American president ever to be elected from an independent party. In a rather unprecedented rise from near obscurity, the former moderate Republican senator from Montana had been on the job just over two weeks before being summoned to her first G-10 meeting. Her platform had caught the two conventional parties completely off guard, while catching the American voter in the sweet spot—implementing a flat tax and abolishing the IRS.

President Haydon! President Haydon! two journalists cried out. President Haydon! a third blurted out, wedging her thin frame between the other two.

Haydon turned to acknowledge the barrage of inquiries, and nodded toward the woman sandwiched between two men.

President Haydon, do you really think your tax reform is possible? the woman asked, with her head somewhat crowned by the armpit of the male reporter next to her, his offending arm thrusting a recording device in the president’s direction.

First of all, I hope the gentleman next to you is wearing deodorant, Haydon quipped, drawing a contained giggle from the press. Instantly, the female journalist’s head was spared further affront as he switched the recorder into his other hand.

Secondly, my constituents and I aren’t here to discuss the U.S. tax code, Haydon continued. "But mark my words; we will roll out our strategy in the coming weeks. And the plan is both real and achievable."

But President Haydon…

Well said, Madame President, a quiet but unmistakable voice said.

Mr. Prime Minister, Haydon reacted, turning slightly to greet Britain’s Robin Collinsworth. What a treat to finally meet you!

Oh no, Madame, the pleasure’s entirely mine, he countered, extending an arm to Haydon. His tone, compelling and disturbing, emanated from his thick barrel chest. His slightly hunched posture and thin wispy hair and eyebrows depicted more of a Charles Dickens character than a resident of Downing Street. But his engaging gray-blue eyes that peered through the round glasses perched at the end of his nose could entice anyone into dialogue. Shall we?

We shall, she said, placing her right hand on his left forearm. The two hopped up onto the curb and turned to face a sea of flashes.

Just then Collinsworth caught a whiff of a very pleasant scent originating from the American. "What are you wearing?" he asked, recognizing the scent, but unable to place it.

It’s a secret, she replied, mischievously. Years earlier, she’d started wearing Issey Miyake for men. Just one spray of her husband Tyler’s cologne was her subtle reminder of him when he was away on business. She was unable to break the habit.

They were followed by Japan’s Yoshito Tanaka, a former Bank of Japan executive who’d run out of rungs to climb, and stepped into the lead role at the Japan’s Central Bank. From there he was an easy choice for his country’s premier.

Mr. Tanaka, a well-known business journalist barked from the front of the media line. It’s Carlton Rose of CNBC.

Tanaka knew of the reporter, and simply nodded for him to continue.

Sir, do you believe the carry trade has reached a potential international crisis? Rose asked. The carry trade at one time had helped support global liquidity, but in recent years it had become somewhat of a speculative tsunami.

Mr. Rose, as you well know, the carry trade is nothing new, Tanaka said. The Yen just happens to be the least expensive currency available at the moment. The trade can be a very helpful tool when not abused. The mere fact that Japan’s Central Bank is in a tightening cycle is not Japan’s fault. Over-extended speculation is the culprit, not Japanese monetary policy.

But Mr. Tanaka, Rose started to ask.

Tanaka shook his head just once, maintaining a tight smile, and rejoined the other leaders.

Germany’s Chancellor Claudia Schmidt, a London School of Economics graduate, ascended the ranks as an economist at Deutsch Bank. Later she would sit at the helm of that global juggernaut for ten years. She knew finance and was a master of integration. Her tireless work ethic, charismatic personality, supportive constituents, and extraordinary ambition drove her into the political realm. In a meteoric ascent, she vaulted to the top of the heap and was elected as Germany’s chancellor. She smiled professionally at the flicker of flashes.

Italy’s trim leader Marco Veroni was a career politician in his second term as president, who seemed to enjoy his time in the tabloids as much as his time in office, causing his handlers nothing but grief. Whether he was skiing in Gstadt or gallivanting on his yacht in San Remo, the media was sure to find him.

Veroni was joined by France’s President Didier Marceau, whose family had handed him a wine empire, and not too long thereafter France handed him the reins to the country. And yet, he was a worthy choice. Marceau was a combination of a myriad of things—class, elegance, hard-working, at times hard-nosed, but reasonable in diplomacy and logic when a viable counterpoint could overcome his position.

Marceau and his Italian counterpart shared a friendly rivalry over which country produced the best wine. The Frenchman also had an obsession with storied jewelry. He wore cufflinks he’d acquired through a very private Sotheby’s auction. The two gorgeous 8-karat ruby nuggets mounted on 24-karat gold clasps were alleged to be from Napoleon Bonaparte’s golden cloak that he’d worn in a famous 1818 portrait. It wasn’t until recent years that he became active in politics as a result of affairs in the Middle East, which were also beginning to affect the landscape at home.

Monsieur Marceau, can you tell us about the postal strike back in France? a French speaking reporter asked.

You are obviously French, and know our country’s history of strikes. Like all of the other disputes before my presidency, we will resolve this one as well, Marceau responded coolly, as he and Veroni stepped onto the curb with the other leaders.

From the final limousine emerged China’s Chen Zheng, the former silver medalist middleweight boxer from the 1980 Olympics who was a devout hard-liner, except when it came to foreign investment in China. As he joined the group of leaders he slipped his Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses into his coat pocket and replaced them with a tight smile for the flashing cameras. A reporter started to ask a question, but the Chinese leader held up an open palm for the question to cease—and it did.

The ten leaders paused briefly for a group photo amidst an onslaught of flashing cameras, while questions continued to be hurled futilely in their direction. Special agent Sylvia Jensen and her small but polished Secret Service unit meshed seamlessly with the Viennese security agency. They meticulously cleared a path through the front entrance and toward the elevators, just to the right of the metal and explosive detectors which were temporarily disabled during the G-10 Summit. Anyone other than an invited guest courageous enough to try and gain entry to the premises would have to penetrate a wall-to-wall force of heavily armed UN police. The integrated unit quickly escorted the G-10 leaders and their personal attachés and distributed them equally into the four elevator cabs, and moments later the entire entourage began their ascent to the 47th floor, while building security locked all the bullet-proof glass entrance doors. All members of the international security contingent assigned to the conference had been required to check their communication devices in with the UN police on the ground floor due to a change in policy. Texting was an unacceptable distraction from duty.

In thirty-three seconds the four elevator doors to the conference center on the 47th floor opened almost simultaneously and its occupants were greeted by a maitre d’ and his staff, all dressed in tuxedos. The maitre d’ directed his staff to relieve the leaders of their overcoats, and gestured toward a set of stairs off to his right. This way please, he said, leading the group of leaders from the black granite vestibule down the three steps to the carpeted main floor of the conference center across to the white table clothed buffet table on the opposite side of the room. Security personnel fanned out on either side of the main floor as a matter of prearranged protocol. There was a large round conference table featuring name placards denoting where everyone would sit to the left of the path where the leaders were taken.

Sylvia walked the perimeter of the conference center, stopping briefly to speak with a few members of her team. Two days earlier, she’d taken charge of the security detail and wound up as the alpha dog to oversee the G-10 security, consisting of Secret Service, Viennese Secret Police, and nine personal bodyguards assigned to the various leaders. She was the only female, and had already proven to be a competent leader for the same group of Secret Service agents back home. With their endorsement, there was no conflict here. She said a few words to the U.N. staff photographer assigned to cover the meeting and the lunch one floor above at the meeting’s intermission.

Jensen was somewhat of a mystery to most insiders, including the president. The vice president had arranged her appointment to the president because of her background and his relationship with the woman’s father, an Annapolis naval officer.

She had become a tactician in the Korean martial art of Hapkido by her seventeenth birthday, winning every competition she was entered in, and seemingly with lust for punishment to her opponent. Hapkido was the art of coordinated power, and was perhaps the best martial art for a woman because one could use all of the weight of a much heavier opponent and turn that into a weapon against the very opponent with that size advantage. From its origins the centerpiece spinning heel kick was designed to take down a horse to bring the soldier mounted on it down to ground level. Sylvia had eliminated every legitimate male or female opponent known in the United States like clockwork, and quit competing.

Still, her father pushed hard for officer’s school at the Naval Academy, but his strong-arm tactics in the end backfired, and his defiant daughter found her way into an intense special forces training program on par with the Navy Seals. To date, women were still not permitted in the Seals, except in movies. She was an adept pupil, and her cool personality and religious physical regimen was a perfect marriage for the discipline necessary to become a stealth fighting machine for the Ranger’s black-op program.

After her first tour of duty in the Serbian conflict, then a six-month stint in the Gulf War II, Sylvia had privately burned out, nearly imploding, as she struggled to define why a woman would ever choose the life she’d chosen instead of manicures and shopping. She found respite on the Cote D’Azur in the south of France, for years bouncing around between Nice and Lyon, and had a brief romance with a budding soccer star. He was a welcome reprieve from her otherwise cold and sterile world.

Eventually a certain intelligence group was taken with her assets, and lured her back into the inner circles long enough to deploy her regularly into tenuous global covert operations. Even Sylvia knew she was damaged goods in terms of life with a white picket fence. With every odds-defying insertion she was dropped into and extracted from, she came to realize there was no turning back. There were no tears. There was no emotion. She was what she was, and she was damn good at it.

At the request of a father who’d lost his wife and longed to know his daughter, a high-ranking retired admiral finally brought Sylvia back in from the cold to acknowledge his subordinate’s request, and to put her tremendous skills to work in a civic capacity, to work alongside the Secret Service as a security consultant for Marge Haydon’s presidential campaign.

Initially Sylvia fought defiantly to preserve her newfound identity in the south of France, where she could lie on the beach uninterrupted, read her Tolstoy, and masquerade as a human being. Finally, against her better judgment, she accepted the new role and her transition into a civic landscape was nearly seamless. Her reunion with her father, however, remained frigid. The family secret that’d tormented her as a teen had long been buried and conveniently forgotten by Rear Admiral Jensen, just as it was by Sylvia. In her case it was survival, and the layers of emotional scars served as both a buffer and honed her motivation. Hence, as much as a father wanted to know and love his daughter, they could barely get past hello. To unlock a vault tucked safely away in time might unleash a demon far worse than the one shackled away in both their hearts. Nevertheless somewhere in their yet-to-be-spoken words the admiral and his daughter’s awkward fate remained precariously trapped.

Satisfied that the conference room was secured, Sylvia moved back to her station at the top of the black granite landing and spoke into her sleeve microphone and within seconds all but six agents vanished into the elevators and ascended to the restaurant on the floor above, according to plan.

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On the 48th floor of the United Nations Building a small army of waiters and waitresses prepared Schaafhausen’s dining room for its celebrated guests. For every server there were two security agents. With every pass of a server, placement of a napkin, fork, or spoon, it seemed there was a breach of security, seriously bogging down the preparations. That’s when Chef Matthew Schaaf burst through the double aluminum doors from the kitchen, waving his arms wildly, demanding that the security measures be eased. We have already been through this! he shouted. All week your people push us around. Now I push back. Enough! Allow us to feed our guests.

Sylvia was inspecting a fold of drapes nearby and stepped over to the ranting chef. Calm down, Mr. Schaaf, she said coolly while grabbing his arm forcefully.

How can I calm down if you do not let me do what I do best? he continued, easing ever so slightly, while wiping a layer of kitchen steam and sweat from his face with his sleeve. They shut down this floor two days ago, and the service elevator, and threw away the keys. The entire building has been X-rayed. Who or what could possibly get in here?

I understand, Sylvia said, coaxing the embroiled chef back into the kitchen. What is your first name? she asked, temporarily disarming the man.

Matthew, he answered calmly.

Show me the kitchen, Matthew.

Schaaf complied and proudly proceeded to show off the engine room of his masterpiece, his Schaafhausen Restaurant, stopping at each of the stations, giving helpful guidance to each member of his staff preparing the different courses of the dinner: seared salmon with shaved truffles, saddle of rabbit, duck mousse and wild mushroom timbale, the shredded zucchini salad, and a bouquet of exotic fruit and hand picked cheeses. The dessert was a surprise for the American president, a warm huckleberry pudding.

Schaaf had openly acknowledged Agent Jensen’s cool but striking looks. What is your name? he asked.

Sylvia, she accommodated him with a lukewarm response, merely trying to keep the frustrated artist at bay, while making small talk with him. He’d hardly realized she’d turned the interview around in no time at all, and now he was giving her a guided tour into the locked pantry, the kitchen washroom and broom closet. Once she was satisfied with her inspection, she abruptly terminated the conversation and rejoined her comrades in the dining room, leaving the chef entirely dumbfounded with her insincerity.

CHAPTER 2

Hong Kong, 5:51 p.m.

The view from the 72nd floor of One Colonial Center on Queen’s Road Central had a special luster to Charles Li as he watched the sun edge closer to its resting place for the day beyond the Kowloon Peninsula. Streaks of crimson and gold painted the sails of boats returning to the harbor, as the Star Ferry dropped off another load of passengers at the Central Terminal. Li peered out from the empty brokerage offices of Pak-Li Global Assets and reflected for a moment on what tomorrow might bring for Hong Kong’s largest precious metal and currency traders.

The financial markets had been overly frothy for quite awhile, reminiscent of the glory days of dot-com. And gold had participated modestly in the frenzy, but still was the best hedge against any sudden downturn. Pak-Li and their global consortium had quietly accumulated $110 billion U.S. mostly in gold and gold futures, amassing nearly one-and-a-half percent of the world’s supply. All they needed now was a story to ride, or a small crisis.

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The dining room at Schaafhausen was starting to reassume the look of a civilized restaurant, organization and tranquility once again reigning now that the security contingent’s needs had been met. A nervous Matthew Schaaf glanced again and again at his Breitling wristwatch. In just two minutes the ten leaders and their entourage would pass through the elevator doors, and his long-awaited appointment with gastronomic destiny would finally be a reality. He pushed through the double aluminum doors to the dining room. Though he no longer barked his frantic orders, the accomplished chef was sweating profusely.

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The drivers of the laundry vans eased the vehicles down the backside of the Reichsbrucke, idling through the early afternoon bridge traffic. The driver of the lead van glanced over to the left at the United Nations complex only three-hundred meters away.

There it is, the driver sighed, annoyed with the traffic clogging the left turn lane. The light was green and no one was moving. He gave the horn on the vehicle three quick blasts.

The other van passed on their righthand side, the driver tapping his horn once while giving the thumbs up signal to his comrades, then proceeded down the backside of the Reichsbrucke and disappeared into traffic.

The passenger in the first van urged patience. It’s not every day the ten most powerful people come to Vienna for a visit, he said. Everything will come in time.

Within minutes they passed the main entrance and pulled into the left turn lane leading to the loading bays, reserved for commercial vehicles.

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As the first of the elevator doors opened to the 48th-floor restaurant, President Haydon emerged with the Russian president and the British PM just behind them, along with a few aides. Seconds later three more elevators delivered the remainder of the G-10 leaders and their entourages.

On the far wall fronting the kitchen the wait-staff stood at attention, arms at their sides, neatly attired in tuxedos. A beaming chef Matthew Schaaf was the centerpiece of his collective. Along the exterior wall in front of the recently-installed floor-to-ceiling bullet-proof windows, a line-up of black suited security personnel looked on with little or no emotion, temporarily obscuring a backdrop of outer Vienna and the wooded hills beyond. Sylvia stood at the end of the line-up closest to the kitchen.

President Haydon took a long whiff of the tantalizing collection of garlic, shallots, and other spices wafting over from the kitchen. Smells delicious, she said to no one in particular.

Indeed, the Russian and British leaders concurred, while an attentive waiter assisted the American president into her chair. Once the German Chancellor was seated, the other eight leaders took their seats at the round table according to their name placards. As it turned out, British luck prevailed, landing Collinsworth between the two ladies. Quietly and seamlessly the waiters removed the pristine white cloth napkins from the table, opened them, and placed them over the laps of their guests, while greeting them warmly. Centered above the dining table hung a magnificent crystal chandelier.

Schaaf and his staff waited for all to be seated as their cue to begin their service, while the chef nervously dabbed at the perspiration on his brow, once again glancing down at his wristwatch to check the time. When the seating was complete, the wait-staff proceeded with the pouring of wine and distribution of hors d’oeuvres, while the anxious chef returned to his galley. As was the case in many fine dining establishments, each leader would have his own personal waiter, assisted by a separate busing waiter who was responsible for bringing each course of a meal from the kitchen, as well as the removal of dirty plates. The main waiter was responsible for final placement of each dish as well as the initial extraction of a finished course. When not directly serving his guest he took three steps back and stood attentively with his hands folded in front of him.

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The first van eased up to the guard station on the back side of the UN complex where all of the commercial vehicles were made to properly identify themselves and their deliveries. From the guard station on each side the perimeter was fenced in to the back side to the complex, with coils of razor-sharp barbed wire woven through the top of a chain-linked fence. There were two twelve-foot concrete columns the fence was mounted to on each side of the station. On the top of each, a surveillance camera referred the images back to the security center on the first floor of the building. The retractable chain-linked gate, which typically remained open during normal business hours, was closed today, locked into the guard station wall.

Gruess gott! the driver greeted with the typical Austrian greeting.

One of the two men in the guard station emerged recognizing the laundry van’s logo, but had his orders. He nodded back with a distant hint of a smile. No one goes through today, he said.

But we have this delivery for Schaafhausen, the driver tried. They said it was urgent.

Sure it is, the guard said, with a weak laugh. "Your company and every other company who makes deliveries here have been given